Commuting to War

NBC Correspondent Jim Hartz and an Israeli escort officer were filming an interview as their car traveled on the Golan Heights behind Israeli lines. Without warning, a shell hit near the road. While camera and tape recorder continued to roll, Hartz, his escort and film crew ditched the car and sprawled on the ground as a heart-stopping succession of blasts bracketed them.

Hartz and his companions escaped unscratched from the Syrian artillery barrage. But the gripping vignette dramatized the random dangers and constant frustrations involved in covering the Arab-Israeli war. Correspondents frequently can get close enough to the fighting to die. But except for Israeli reporters, who are allowed to follow the army, journalists generally have been denied the kind of front-line access that is necessary for the deep, intimate reportage that was almost routine in Viet Nam. The cost in blood has already been high. Three Israeli newsmen have been killed, including Radio Israel's Senior Producer Rafi Unger, 26. Nicholas Tomalin, 42, a respected English war correspondent (London Sunday Times), died when a Syrian rocket demolished his car near the Golan Heights.

Rommel's Route. By the war's second week, more than 500 reporters and TV technicians from 30 nations had assembled in Israel. Another 400 managed to get into Egypt. Most of them followed Field Marshal Erwin Rommel's land route from Benghazi in Libya, arriving in Cairo bone-weary and -dry after an 800-mile drive by taxicab across the desert (fare: $400). Damascus and Amman played reluctant hosts to smaller press contingents.

None of the combatant countries were actively hostile to newsmen. Even Syria, which has no diplomatic relations with the U.S., allowed in a few American journalists, including TIME'S Karsten Prager, the New York Times 's Juan de Onis, CBS's Dean Brelis and ABC'S Peter Jennings. Others were arbitrarily barred. Egypt and Israel both established elaborate press headquarters.

Neither Arab nor Israeli officials have permitted foreigners to move into battle with combat units, a practice commonly allowed by the U.S. military in South Viet Nam. Cairo even barred most Egyptian reporters from the front, though journalists of all nationalities were taken on a few brief, tightly guided excursions in the Sinai. When correspondents elected a 14-man pool for one such visit, Russian journalists walked out because the choice did not assure balance among Western, Communist and "Third World" newsmen.

Israel has provided 80 escort officers, including the movie star Haim Topol, to act as translators and tour guides to combat zones approved by Israeli security. As an added fillip, the military press liaison runs daily tourist buses from Tel Aviv to the Golan Heights, but this service is unpopular with many reporters. "I wouldn't get into one of those coffins with masses of correspondents," says New York Times Correspondent Terence Smith. Indeed, on one trip, bus drivers ventured too close to the battle line and came under Syrian air and artillery attack. Only poor marksmanship averted a major press disaster.

Enterprising newsmen can rent cars in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem and attempt runs into Syria. When these intrepid commuters can elude Israeli blockades, they often find combat soldiers cooperative and friendly, particularly if newsmen offer to carry messages back to relatives at home.

Reporters are subject to tough government censorship on both sides. To their credit, both Arab and Israeli censors have rarely distorted stories solely for propaganda purposes. But they do excise any military information that might conceivably aid the enemy. Tricks to thwart such restrictions have already had some success. When ABC Bureau Chief Bill Seamans secured film of U.S. planes landing near Tel Aviv at the beginning of the American airlift, he phoned his headquarters in New York. As two Israeli censors listened, Seamans said: "I'm so tired I've been seeing stars." This cryptic message alerted network news chiefs to schedule a segment on the arrival of U.S. equipment (with star insignia) in Israel. Five minutes before that night's deadline, censors allowed Seamans to transmit the story.

Jordan's tense role at the edge of the fighting has resulted in a virtual blackout of hard information in Amman--not that much has been happening there so far. Newsmen were barred from travel outside the city and forbidden to film anything except the Hotel Intercontinental, which the Hussein government transformed into one of the world's most expensive--and silent--press centers. Censors examine and heavily edit all news reports. One reporter got his copy through untouched by labeling it "Not for Publication." Others have smuggled stories out by courier.

Egyptian censorship is similarly strict, and journalists must depend largely on the official communiques issued a couple of times a day in Cairo. Veteran Mideast reporters think that these bulletins are less distorted than those issued by Egypt during its ignoble showings in 1948,1956 and 1967.

Newsmen are often faced with conflicting communiques. Last Thursday U.S. papers carried an Israeli spokesman's claim that an Israeli task force was still operating behind Egyptian lines west of the Suez. The same front pages also ran the Egyptian claim that no Israeli troops were left in Egypt. Considering such obstacles, the press generally has done a more than creditable job in covering the war. But the massed correspondents, tons of equipment and advanced satellite technology could not offset lack of steady access to events and knowledgeable sources.

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